


and my ship's underwater

by skvadern



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Caretaking, Enthrallment, M/M, Mind Control, Pre-Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Vampire Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/pseuds/skvadern
Summary: As if he can read Martin’s mind, Jon’s eyes flick to his throat, and he licks his lips again. This time, Martin doesn’t think it’s with nerves.Martin wants to give Jon anything, everything. He's not really expecting to be cared for in return.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 34
Kudos: 462





	and my ship's underwater

**Author's Note:**

> beta-read by procrastinatingbookworm. thanks as ever to eye horror for cheering this mess on  
> title from use me up by wanderhorse

“What have you eaten today?” Jon asks, and Martin blinks. He shouldn’t be surprised really – Jon is blunt by nature, especially when he’s feeling awkward, as he probably is at the moment.

Still, he knows why Jon is asking, and he also knows that if he doesn’t answer to Jon’s satisfaction, Jon won’t hesitate to call this off. God help him, Martin doesn’t want him to call this off.

“I had yogurt and toast with jam for breakfast, a ham sandwich and a salad for lunch, and shepherd’s pie for dinner,” Martin recites dutifully. “Three square meals, just like you said. And I’ve been taking the supplements you recommended.”

Jon nods slowly. “Yes, that’s good.” If he notices Martin’s cheeks go the approximate colour of a tomato, he doesn’t let on. “You’re still-“

“Yes, Jon,” Martin interrupts – rude, but he doesn’t care. His skin feels too tight, too small against the expanding balloon of anticipation and anxiety and  _ want _ ; he needs this to happen now, before he loses his nerve or just dies. “I’m still okay with this. I still want this. And I know you’re still thirsty.”

Jon meets his gaze at that last sentence, and his eyes are very dark. When he flicks his tongue nervously over his lips, Martin can see a peak of slender fang, just starting to emerge. It sends him dizzy, light-headed; suddenly  _ very _ aware of his heartbeat, the jumping pulse in his neck.

As if he can read Martin’s mind, Jon’s eyes flick to his throat, and he licks his lips again. This time, Martin doesn’t think it’s with nerves.

He clears his throat, and Martin tenses for the order, the imperious snap. Instead, Jon says, “You don’t have to do this; you know that, yes? I need to make sure you- I have to be sure.”

Martin squints at him. “Why? I already gave my consent, didn’t I?”

Jon lets out a deep breath, glancing down at the floor. “Look, Martin, there’s no non-patronising way to say this, so I’m just going to, to say it. It concerns me that you’re so willing to give up your very blood to someone you met only months ago, that you’re so… accommodating.” He scuffs his foot on Martin’s carpet - ridiculously cute, for a century-old terror of the night. 

He was right - Martin does feel a little patronised to, but he guesses he can see why Jon is worried. “I guess I’ve always liked looking after people,” he says slowly. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, and it doesn’t mean I’ve got some sort of, I don’t know, compulsion.”

Jon scuffs his foot again, coughs a little. “Of course. I just need you to understand that you’re not under any obligation.”

Martin can’t help a little smile at that. For all that he seems sure he’s a monster, irredeemable and cruel, Jon is so ridiculously  _ good _ it hurts. “I do understand, I promise. I want to be here.”

Jon doesn’t blush or anything – between the deep brown of his skin and his state of maybe-undeath, Martin’s not sure he can – but his thick eyelashes flutter as he looks down at the floor. A swelling tide of tenderness rises in Martin’s chest – this beautiful man, older than Martin can quite accept and so obviously hurt, softening in front of his eyes. In that moment he’d do anything for Jon, anything at all.

“Alright then,” Jon mutters. “I suppose that’s the clearest answer I’m going to get.” When he looks back up at Martin, that hunger is there, banked and steady like a hearth fire and warming Martin all the way to his toes.

“Will you come here?” Jon asks, and his voice, oh, his  _ voice _ . The lovely deep slide of it is somehow  _ resonant _ , humming with power that slides across Martin’s skin like heated silk. He’s moving almost before he processes the words, crossing the room to take Jon’s hand. The cool fingers still the shaking, make Martin feel held, contained. He can’t fall now – Jon will keep him safe.

“Good,” Jon murmurs, then laughs a little as he takes Martin’s face in his hands, tilts his chin to stare into Martin’s hazy eyes. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw someone go down this quickly. It’s quite gratifying, though I suspect it’s more to do with the permeability of your mind than my power.”

“Is that good?” Martin asks softly, through lips that want nothing more than to be parted open and still.

Jon smiles at him, more gently than Martin’s ever seen him before. Why, he doesn’t know – could it be him, making Jon look that way? The idea is dangerously sweet. “It’s very good, Martin, though I suspect not something you should advertise. Being so open to others’ influence could get you in a lot of trouble.”

That makes Martin flinch a little – there’s something wrong with him, he’s weak- Jon curls a hand around the back of Martin’s neck and squeezes, and the swirling thoughts cut off before they can sink their teeth in.

“Stop that,” Jon raps out, and Martin freezes. The command in that rich voice fills him up, welling over, and the anguish fades as quickly as it came as Jon’s thumb strokes over his neck. “It’s lovely, Martin. You have nothing to worry about, alright? Leave the worrying to me for the moment; I’m in charge now, after all.”

And God, is he ever. Years of tension go out of Martin, so fast it makes his head spin, and he sags into Jon’s supernaturally strong hold. Distantly, he feels himself guided to sit on the sofa, but he only comes back fully to himself when a slight weight sinks onto his thighs.

Looking up at Jon, perched in Martin’s lap like it’s his throne, is like looking at the sun. Literally – the living room light casts a halo around Jon’s head when he slips Martin’s glasses off, mesmerising him. More than anything, Martin wants to touch him, but he can’t bear to move - just in case it’s not allowed.

“You can touch me, Martin,” Jon says, an indulgent lilt to his voice. So that’s probably a yes on the mind-reading, then. “Actually, you can do whatever you like – I’ll tell you if something isn’t allowed.”

The freedom, the  _ trust _ Jon’s given him, makes Martin’s head spin. He reaches up, tentative, to brush his hands down Jon’s sides, chest heaving with the wonder of feeling him close. Jon shivers a little, before leaning into Martin’s hands, eyes fluttering closed as a soft smile lights his face.

Martin can’t help himself – he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Jon’s back and hugging him tightly. Jon wriggles a little, and Martin freezes, suddenly terrified that he’s fucked up – but then Jon relaxes, sighing softly, and his arms slide around Martin’s shoulders. They’re so light, and yet they anchor Martin to this wonderful reality with the weight of solid marble. He sucks in deep breaths saturated with Jon, his cologne and his laundry powder and the strange, cold smell that Martin keeps catching around him.

Martin doesn’t think he’s ever felt this safe, not once in his whole life.

The soft press of Jon’s face into his neck makes Martin tremble, electrified with want. When Jon’s nosing turns to a cool, wet flick of tongue, Martin actually whimpers.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Jon whispers, voice laden with something endlessly soft and possessive. “Such a lovely thrall.” Teeth slide over Martin’s sensitised, singing skin, and one of those weak little sounds tumbles from his lips again.

Jon rears back a little, settling himself deeper in Martin’s lap. He curls long, cool fingers around Martin’s jaw, gently guiding his head to the side, baring his neck. Martin can’t stop shivering, he’s not quite sure why, but a gentle hand smoothing down his side and the soft crooning “Steady,” in Jon’s velvet voice calms him. By the time Jon’s teeth fit carefully against his artery, Martin feels like he’s floating on his back in calm water, still and peaceful.

Without warning, Jon’s fangs slide into his neck like a knife through butter, and it  _ hurts _ , sends Martin whimpering with it – but only for a moment. Something warm and sweet spreads through him – venom? Some function of his enthrallment? Martin doesn’t know or care, all he’s aware of is the blossoming pleasure, thrumming through every nerve, his whole body sinking into blissful lassitude.

Jon pulls back, brilliant crimson staining the white of his teeth – he’s beautiful, impossibly lovely, this otherworldly godlike being. He dips his head back to the wounds he’s left in Martin’s neck and Martin cries out as he starts to draw on it. Deep, steady pulls, like the tide drawing out, and tugging Martin unresisting in their wake. Each swallow rocks him so sweetly, leading him into the gentle darkness behind his eyes, into the glorious freedom of being nothing but a body, used by someone he cares for. 

The wonder of it – Jon needs him, Jon is sating himself on Martin’s body, Martin is feeding Jon from his own flesh. He can give Jon something he needs, so easily. It’s magic, it’s perfect.

Too soon, the hot suction is gone from his neck, but Jon replaces it with gentle laps of his tongue, and strong arms that curl round Martin. Holding him steady, his reward for being so good, and Martin rests his face on Jon’s cold shoulder where Jon guides it there. His whole body is filled up with light.

“Good boy,” Jon murmurs against his neck, and Martin could  _ weep _ .

The praise sets off little sparks in his gut, and Martin squirms, rubbing his thighs together. The molten heat suffusing every muscle has made its way to his cock, and even the slightest friction feels incredible. He whines a little, pressing up into Jon, trying to get more of that pleasure.

“Shh,” Jon murmurs, and hands as cool and relentless as granite pin Martin’s hips to the sofa. He moans pleadingly, too suffused with animal want to manage words, praying that Jon will help him, will give him what he needs.

Jon sighs deeply, and slides off of Martin’s lap. It’s  _ wrenching _ , the loss of contact and pressure, and Martin barely bites back the tears. Then Jon’s hands fit gently against his shoulders and urge him down onto the sofa. He curls up there, aching to grab at Jon but unsure if he’s allowed – whatever Jon said, surely that only applied before Martin asked for something he didn’t want to give?

But, miracle of miracles, Jon slides onto the sofa, pushing against Martin to fit his back against Martin’s chest. Martin clings shamelessly, forcing his hips still. Jon threads their fingers together where Martin’s hand rests on his belly and lets Martin snuggle to his heart’s content, immersed in everything Jon. 

It doesn’t take long before Martin’s returned to himself enough to be ashamed. In fairness, it’s not like that part’s ever very far from the surface. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice quivering just enough to humiliate him further.

Jon sighs again, the corner of his face Martin can see from where his head is propped up looking troubled, but still tender. “It’s alright, Martin. I’m not angry with you – how could I be, when you were so good for me? It’s my fault, I should have known this was a possibility.”

“I shouldn’t have- I pushed too far. I’m sorry,” Martin says again, and Jon flicks him on the arm, a sharp little burst of pain that cuts through the misery.

“None of that, now. I don’t  _ mind _ , Martin – we haven’t discussed this, is all, and I don’t think you’re exactly in your right mind at the moment.”

As much as he hates to admit it, Martin thinks he might be right. He tucks his head into Jon’s shoulder and lets Jon enfold him, sucks down that strange, inhuman scent and sinks back into calm. Jon’s still happy with him, so everything’s okay.

Martin stays in that quiet, sleepy space for the rest of the evening; Jon nudges him into eating a take-away pizza that Martin barely tastes - though he finishes the whole thing - and tells him sternly to go to the bathroom, brush his teeth and change into his pyjamas. Martin hurries through those tasks, desperate to get back to Jon again.

Thank God, Jon is right outside the bathroom door, and he takes Martin back into his arms as soon as they’re close enough. Martin clings shamelessly, burying his face in Jon’s hair, and Jon’s contented hum reverberates wonderfully through his bones.

“Come on,” Jon says, easing him backwards, and Martin lets himself be guided. It’s only when they get to his bed that Martin remembers that Jon doesn’t want to touch him like that, won’t want to get into bed with him, and the bottom drops right out of his stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks sharply, and Martin shudders, tears pricking at his eyes. He can’t tell Jon, can’t ask for anything more, not when Jon’s already been so good to him, so caring, more than Martin deserves-

Another flick to his arm, and Martin pulls back to stare at Jon. He’s looking up at Martin, jaw set firmly. “I said, enough of that. You’re under my protection right now, I’ll be deciding what you deserve.”

Jon stares him down until Martin relents, letting himself drop heavily to sit on the bed. “Good,” he tells Martin, cupping his face so gently, and Martin nuzzles into the cool, soft skin.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, words safe where they drop into Jon’s palm.

Jon shakes his head. “I want to.” He pauses for a moment, then leans down awkwardly, pressing a feather-light kiss on Martin’s forehead. “As I say, you’re my responsibility, and it’s a responsibility I’m privileged to undertake.”

Martin squints up at him, feeling about recovered enough to poke fun. “You know, in all those words, I’m pretty sure you said you care about me.”

That gets him an affronted glare, lips pressed tight like he won’t notice them twitching at the corners. “Less of that,” Jon chides, and Martin’s just about recovered enough to grin up at him. Jon huffs, pulling away to strip down to his undershirt and boxers, turning off the lights as Martin settles into the joy suffusing his chest.

In short order, he’s bundled into bed and Jon’s climbing after him, poking Martin onto his back so he can fit himself under Martin’s arm and rest his head on Martin’s shoulder. The solid weight settled half-on his side relaxes something that had drawn tight and tense inside him, and Martin sighs gently.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Jon nuzzles into Martin’s shoulder like a cat.

“Don’t be silly,” he huffs, “thank  _ you _ . Now go to sleep, you need it.”

Even though he can feel the enthrallment fading, the order is still enough to drop Martin straight down into slumber. His last thought before sleep claims him is that he’s sure, somehow, that Jon will be there when he wakes up.


End file.
